


Trump Card

by fuckingtodd



Category: American Politics - Fandom, Politics - Fandom, Professional Wrestling, Republican Party, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: John Cena - Freeform, Mass Death, Other, Politics, extreme violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2018-04-20 03:34:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4771913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckingtodd/pseuds/fuckingtodd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year after Trump's election as president, his master plan is unveiled.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The hall was long, and men in suits lined the narrow pathway. Some greeted one another happily, with kisses on the cheeks and warm hugs, others with cold glances and scoffs of disdain. But the fact that the men were gathered here today in one room was an accomplishment, and at their core they all knew that. Peace at last was within their grasp, and there was only one man who could claim responsibility for that enormous accomplishment. At the head of the lengthy hall, a black platform stood, though the men in the hall were unaware of it’s existence, concealed by a milky white curtain. 

Suddenly, the lights dimmed. The curtains slowly parted, and the men went silent as the one and only Donald Trump was revealed. He wore a jet-black suit, a rose in his lapel. “Gentlemen,” he stated, his powerful voice thundering through the grand hall. “It has been an incredible 2016. With my extensive foreign policy skills, I have solved every single issue in the Middle East simply by building enormous walls between every country.” This statement was met with roaring applause from all across the hall, and a single tear of admiration and awe rolling down one man’s face, who sat alone in the back of the room.. That man was named Benjamin Netanyahu. Ever since he was young, he had aspired to be like the grand billionaire, to walk as he did, to speak as he did. But he knew it was an impossible task. There was an air about Donald “The Don” Trump, one that could not be replicated, one that man nor woman could ever aspire to, much less achieve. He was an enigma, a symbol of something greater than anyone in that room. Netanyahu was inspired, and it showed on the Israeli Prime Minister’s face. Donald cleared his throat. “It’s a shame that it must end this way, but in the end the only true way to pave a better tomorrow.”

A wave of confused murmuring broke out across the crowd. “What does he mean?” The men whispered to one another, with looks of concern or amusement on their face. Donald cleared his throat loudly into the microphone again, silencing them. “I’m sorry it has to end this way,” He said, turning away from the crowded hall. “But there is only one man who can truly decide the fate of the middle east.” Trump paused again. “AND HIS NAME IS JOHN CENA!” 

Trumpets blaring from the speakers, John Cena smashed through the wall, crashing headfirst into Ali Khamenei, the supreme leader of Iran. Khamenei, terrified and flustered, scrambled upwards and limped for the exit, his leg unusable. But it was too late. Cena rose, brandishing his fist, and punched the Iranian leader’s head clean off, sending it flying across the room. He gave a hearty chuckle. “What a great way to head this meeting off.” He grinned widely, approaching the Lebanese president, Michel Suleiman. The leader stuttered, panicked. “Wh-who are you?” Cena laughed out loud. “My name is John Cena. And this sunday night, I will face off against 15 separate middle eastern leaders, all at once, within the ring of dooooom!” The walls of the hall fell apart in one cataclysmic movement, revealing a massive wrestling ring. 

Multiple leaders immediately soiled themselves at the sight of the massive ex-marine, who tore his T-Shirt off in order to reveal his spectacular set of abs, glistening in the light of the now-exposed sun. He began to softly hum “Proud to be an American” by Bruce Springsteen as he walked slowly towards Seyyed Ali Khamenei, the second Supreme Leader of Iran. Ali began to speak in Arabic as Cena approached, cracking the knuckles on his enormous hands. He moved downwards into a crouching position. Ali hesitated. With the force of a thousand suns, Cena propelled himself forwards, launching the elderly arab into the edge of the ring with such force that his back immediately snapped, killing him instantly. Cena, in the center of the ring, began to stretch his arms. King Salman bin Abdulaziz Al Saud approached him quickly, speaking finally in English. “Thank you for eliminating our enemy,” he stated plainly, a slight smile on his face. “In the past, the United States has not been as been as willing to take immediate action against its enemies until now.” Meanwhile, Trump exited the stage and began to approach the smiling Saudi leader. 

In that moment Cena’s cocky, lighthearted grin turned into a solemn, serious look. “The...the past?” His head began to hurt. “The...the past…” He began to groan as the pain intensified, excruciating pain ripping through his head. He screamed, startling the celebrating Saudi king who backed off, a concerned look on his face. Trump looked at the face of the WWE with mild concern as he approached. “He should be fine. We’ve altered his mind to the point where he can’t remember anything anyways.” Trump chucked to himself, fiddling with his toupee. “He’s just a killing machine now.” 

Meanwhile, the pain in John “The Doctor of Thuganomics’” Cena’s head had grown to be more painful than he could have imagined as he attempted to remember anything before the past week, an invisible scythe tearing through his skull. He began to remember a vague idea from before the operation, a life of Americana for-fun violence and joy. Cena couldn’t remember the rest, just the operation and the endless pain he experienced. The Saudi king, meanwhile, looked on at Cena with a look that both seemed apprehensive of the screaming former wrestler and his violent capability as well as legitimately concerned about the man’s health. “Is he all right, Mr. Trump?” He asked with sincerity. Donald shrugged. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.” He muttered, turning away and beginning to move towards the stage again. 

Out of nowhere, the muscular arm of Cena sprouted at the speed of sound, a crack sounding out as his fist broke the sound barrier. The powerful arm of the WWE Champ smashed through the Saudi Monarch’s chest, shattering his ribs and killing him instantly as he was propelled backwards, flying into the wall. He let out a long, incoherent cry as he soared, his hands flailing wildly before he hit the ground, his eyes and mouth gaping open as he took his last choked breath. John “Mr. Money in the Bank” Cena gripped the nearby Michel Suleiman, who cried out. “P-please,” He cried out. “We are an ally of America, a-and a democratic state. Have mercy.” The rage in Cena’s eyes only grew. He grasped the Lebanese leader’s head and pulled it close to him, his mouth inches from his ear. “I am no American, sir.” He whispered. “I am a god.” He tossed the limp Lebanese man’s body into the air, positioned his body in a crouching position, and dragon-kicked the Middle Eastern leader smashing through the ceiling, sending him hurtling hundreds of feet into the air until his crippled body smashed into the ground miles away, shattering every bone in his body as if it was brittle glass. Meanwhile, President Trump watched from the head of the hall, stroking his chin with a neutral expression as he observed John “The Champ” Cena grip President Abd Rabbuh Mansur Hadi of Yemen and President Fuad Masum of Iraq in his two separate hands. He gripped the center of their respective torsi tightly and told them softly to “straighten out.” Fear in their souls, they straightened their bodies to the best of their abilities, only to be horrified as John “The Chain Gang Soldier” Cena hurled them as human javelins through the hole in the ceiling created by another middle eastern leaders’ demise, sending both Hadi and Masum hurtling into the atmosphere, flesh and skin quickly burning off of their bodies as they soared upwards, swiftly yet painfully burning to death. 

John “The Cenation Leader” Cena looked down and took a deep breath, regaining his composure. The group of leaders now huddled together in a corner, staring at the behemothic ex-marine that stood over them, shirtless and drenched in sweat. Netanyahu stared at the champ’s bulging pectoral muscles with a mix of awe and terror as the colossal man approached him. Cena gripped him tightly by the throat and tossed him a few feet in the air, sending the Israeli prime minister crying out as John “The Prototype” Cena leapt 10 full feet and brought himself down on the feeble Israeli with the force of god almighty and unleashed his finishing move Godslammer, sounding a loud crack as his absurdly toned body broke the sound barrier in a colossal explosion of dust and carpet as the entire ring was destroyed, littering the landscape of the surrounding desert with World Wrestling Entertainment licensed material. Where Netanyahu once stood there only remained a series of mangled limbs and fragmented bones in the center of an enormous crater.

In the wreckage of the once-great structure, two other leaders lay dead, bodies annihilated by the bone-crushing impact of his legendary finishing move. Sheikh Tamim bin Hamad bin Khalifa Al Thani of Qatar lay in 3 equally unrecognizable pieces, each an expanse of space from one another. Hamad bin Isa bin Salman Al Khalifa, King of Bahrain, laid face down in the sand, a wet cloud of scarlet red blooming outwards in the sand from his fairly intact corpse. Abdullah II bin al-Hussein, king of Jordan, meanwhile, had seemingly escaped with his life. He ran frantically through the sandy hills, never looking back to give John “Fruity Pebbles” Cena any edge in the mortal cat-and-mouse game he knew they were locked in. Suddenly, a brawny, winged shadow cast over him for a split second. Despair set into his heart as he processed the fact that John “Big Match John” Cena had taken to the skies with a jet-black wingsuit, soaring gracefully through the sky. Abdullah barely had time to register pain as Cena crashed into him, moving at inconceivable speeds in order to soar around most of the world, smashing the Jordanian monarch into the White House and collapsing the west wing of Donald Trump’s shining white residence using the speed he had gained from crossing through most of Earth. He fluidly transitioned out of his forceful strike, backflipping thrice as he spiraled through the air, sticking his landing perfectly. Although there was nothing that John “The Man Who Never Gives Up” Cena would have liked to do more than sit down at a Washington DC diner and have a traditional American meal, he knew that there was still work to be done. He looked at the great white structure before rising and gliding back to the wreckage of the great hall. 

John “The Man That Runs The Place” knew that within his 10-minute journey around the world, a few of the leaders would have escaped. He found this acceptable. Some of the leaders would go to their homes and tell the stories of fear that John had crafted. He looked out upon the craters and devastation he had caused, and smiled. The catastrophe was his masterpiece. Only one leader remained within the area that he could sense. Bashar Assad, the tyrannical president of Syria, was slowly traveling, calling for help without the knowledge that there was no one to hear him but the one man seized by bloodlust in the area. Sailing forwards in the air, Cena looked down, a wild grin on his face. With immense force, he shot his own body downwards bulleting towards the frail Syrian dictator. As John “Mr. P” Cena’s fist made contact with Bashar’s body, the enormous force with which he attacked was too powerful for the very continuum of time and space itself, causing a collapse of everything involving Bashar Assad. In the instant that the fist made it’s critical impact, Bashar simply ceased to exist. The entire history of the middle east was rewritten as it was revealed that not only had Bashar Assad never taken power in the middle eastern nation, he had never even been born. John “Willy Wonka” Cena watched, in mild interest, the basic laws of the universe collapse as the matter that comprised Assad disappeared into an abyss not even Cena could ever hope to understand. 

With his job done, John “Specialist in Elder Law” Cena looked out at the seemingly boundless ocean of desolate sand that greeted him. The city that was once there was gone, the destruction of the one-sided battle that had occurred rendering the once-great metropolis a mere pillar of sand and charred cement. John “Gay Marriage” Cena looked out across the barren sands. There was still work to be done. His thought was cut short by a personal call from Donald Trump. He rose and answered. “What is it?” He asked resentfully, speaking to an old friend as well as a new enemy. “Look up.” Trump muttered, hanging up. Cena barely had time to register thought as the warhead slammed into the desert mere inches from him, pluming a grotesque mushroom cloud, visible hundreds of miles away. In a flash of thermonuclear light, all meat was burned off of John Cena’s skin, leaving only a pile of bleached-white bone, decayed by the flash of light that had, for now, ended his existence. Where the conference for peace had begun with optimism, the desert now only bore the desolate scenery of nuclear annihilation.


	2. Ode to Putin: Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part I of the ode to Putin, an accompaniment to Trump Card.

A gasp, gulping through pages of static ice,  
Bursting through the covers of water  
To behold the Slavic sun, light immense and glowering:  
Vladimir Putin brushes it off, flesh rippling like the gills of a fish.

He flexes, sighs, cracks his knuckles two times.  
“It is a good day to bask in the warmth of the Motherland.”  
With ease his muscular stature parts the frost of the river  
As he enters and returns bearing the bear he hath slain   
In prolonged, turbulent strife.

Its flesh parts with simplicity  
Serrated teeth gnaw hungrily at grizzly meat.  
Putin hums a song of Russia   
Saws back and forth to the homely rhythm.

“Tenacity, veracity, the city of valor;   
Soldiers march at my command   
To reduce the land of the USA   
To smoldering ash.”

Then a ringtone buzz—Wrecking Ball by Miley Cyrus.  
Profane, American uninspiration assaults his ears–  
Vicious notes, capitalist idiocracy:  
Putin shudders and recoils, but his muscles do not bow to fear.

A heroic twist of the wrist  
A wrench and an expulsion of his fist (like a birth in reverse)  
Still dripping with gastric juices, an iPhone emerges from the bowels of his prey.  
“Putin here. What do you want, capitalist scum?”

“Trump here. Happy thermonuclear winter!”  
Putin turns, baring his teeth, jaws unleashed.  
No hope for him; a mushroom cloud blooms on the horizon.  
“God Almighty.” His last words are a whisper.


	3. ACT II

For the first time in centuries, John “What the fuck did you just say about me you little bitch” Cena rose. He knew a great deal of time had passed since he had felt the heat of nuclear destruction consume him, and the desolation of nuclear fallout that he observed around him had been his unchosen home. John “Badda Bing, Badda Boom” Cena’s body had taken it’s time to regenerate, and he could only imagine what kind of a world Donald Trump had created while he had laid in his seemingly endless rest. He cracked his knuckles for the first time in an age, feeling the strength he had lacked for ages surge through his body. It was time, Cena concluded, for the Cenation to rise again. Off he went, sprinting in the aimlessly in hope of finding a town unscathed by the destruction of slowly fading nuclear winter. 

\----------

Charred clouds linger above industrial smog,  
Above towering skyscrapers and corporate complexes;  
The lungs of the city are blasted and ashen.  
Below the cog of the bourgeoisie forever turns  
Kept shiny and chrome by the hands of slavering children.

The city moves to the tune of the piper’s funds,  
His starry sheen shimmering silver beyond shorn stripes.  
One name above all, twisted and perverted:  
Moscowboy revels under American idiocracy become reality.

Today is a special day of commemoration:  
Happy Fourth of July, Vladimir Putin.

Folded beneath realms of earthen shards  
And divested of sun and beauty,  
Condemned to a slow death by time  
Malformed troglodytes writhe and write  
Under the seethe of white wax chains.

The flames cast phantasmagorical shadows—  
Cadaverous and untouched a coffin stands  
Rimmed with bloodied darkness.  
To this icon the cavemen pray prostrated:  
“Witness!” they cry, “Witness the undying glory of Putin’s legacy!”

Blue gaze turns over in its socket  
Eyes crack with anemic veins  
Bones tremble from the toil of centuries-long metamorphosis  
And then the rays of springtime bleach them white  
A vainglorious soul flares to life, melting deathly winter.

The coffin buckles.  
Wood splinters and surrenders  
To a physique chiseled in a cocoon:  
An Ubermensch flowering Slavic wings.  
He, awesome and blinding,

He, the final hope for Russia,  
Emerges from his chrysalis at last;  
Vladimir Putin surrounded by his acolytes  
Above them and around them:

Infinite, secular beauty.


	4. Ode to Putin: Part III

A sun submerged in clandestine smog  
Squints down upon fomenting shadows.  
Inverted pillars and soot-splattered chunks of stone  
Surround their ambiguous, viscous forms.

Vladimir Putin grins, teeth as bright as the Elephant’s Foot,  
His muscles actuated   
oiled   
shining   
sculpted  
brass,   
silver,   
Shards of reified nerve alloys.  
A swatch of glass documents his eyelash.

“Our time is at hand, brothers and sisters.  
Our time is at hand and we shall claim it!  
For the Americans are in arrears  
Their penance is long overdue  
And our legacy must be fulfilled.  
So, do you join me?  
And shall we reform the great nation of Russia,  
Hand in hand,  
Step for step?”

A tormented visage locks eyes with Putin.

“Why, why did you leave us to the Americana for two centuries? For generations my ancestors thought you dead—even as we prayed! What stayed your hand of wrath? Why—”

But Putin slaps his marbled cheek  
A twisted tooth exits his jaws.

“You see me a fool, you wretch?  
A paltry Judas?  
For I am no such thing.  
I arise again from a world of shades  
So let me tell you of what I’ve seen  
Let me tell me of a world touched  
By an unseen hand of ash  
Trickling forth from a well of lamplight.  
There, hounded by as many days as all the burgers in the Idiocracy  
By wheels of flesh scarred and bleeding from green glass—  
There, a voice spoke to me, as if carried by the dust:

‘The Last Savior, The First Speaker will be known by the bones he bears, and his trophies of bears.’

Thus it was revealed unto me  
That my return was foretold in prophecy.  
So I call upon you all,  
And I expect you to join me.  
Join me in a quest to reclaim our sovereignty.”

And now they rise  
By his speech fortified  
Forming fists of rage.

“Trust not the man who is not your comrade.  
Your blood runs in their veins, and theirs in yours.  
As long as we live—and long may we live!—we are one.  
Our souls are entwined in the world machine.  
There is no surrender but for death, and in death you shall be peaceful.”

An assembly of cheers arises from the gloom  
And raucous delight pollinates the air  
While beneath it, whirring, purring, thrumming, churtling,  
Chimes the common dissent:  
“Down with the majority!”

A war chant.  
An upcry.  
A bearing of arms.  
An adjustment to the sun  
(Always wary of the drones that patrol the skies)  
And then a cry, a cry:  
“No more lies!  
His rule is a lie!”  
Pensive noises join the chorus of voices.

And so begins the last war.


	5. Act III: Endgame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Finale.

The square of Moscowboy was unsettlingly quiet as John “Testosterone” Cena approached it tentatively, his footsteps silent. The city streets had been empty for hours, windows boarded up as the underdeveloped metropolitan center prepared for the storm of violence and devastation that would inevitably strike it. He had taken his time in arriving at the former Russian city, only going a quarter of his speed in order to cross most of the Asian continent vertically in roughly fifteen minutes. He took a deep breath, walking into the square where he expected to see an enemy.  
Hundreds of meters away, in the shadow cast by an enormous Trump Corporation department store, he saw a man he thought he never would: Vladimir Putin. Leaning on a colossal statue of Trump, he stood, mechanical muscles bulging from his shirt. Just as much metal as man, the Russian was in front of a sizable crowd of scraggly-appearing Russian civilians, holding crudely made Russian flags and outdated weapons, faded into the antiquity of the twenty-third century. Cena and Vladimir’s eyes immediately met, with Putin drawing his weapon from it’s holster and pointing it at John “Generally an ok guy” Cena’s head.   
“Mr. Cena.” The infamous Russian leader called out to the legendary wrestler. “Are you here to massacre for Trump, as you did centuries ago, or fight him with us now?” Cena hesitated, a bead of sweat rolling down his somehow muscular forehead. Was he truly ready to fight Trump so early? He wanted more time to prepare. But he knew he had no choice. “I am here to fight against the Trumpian swine.” He called out. Putin smiled, moving closer. “Let us embrace in a non-homosexual manner, brother.” He said, a warm smile appearing on his partially metallic face. “Today is a good day to die.”   
For hours, they waited, the grand clock at the top of the grand statue of Trump sounding off its soft series of ticks and tocks as the tension and grim determination on the faces of the rebels grew moment by moment. Every minute or so, another Moscowboyian citizen would come out to the square, and a rebel would, with a grim look on their face, give them a weapon without exchanging a single word, their solidarity and dissatisfaction with Trumpian Ultracapitalism rendering them comrades without necessity for speech.   
In an instant, the quietude was swept away. An enormous object, traveling at a breakneck speed, smashed into the center of the square, causing a grand explosion of brick and dust that sent a group of lounging Moscowboyians flying in various directions. A chaotic haze came over the ragtag group of rebels, some screaming orders at others and others fleeing in the face of Donald Trump’s immense force.   
Gunfire broke out as Trumpian soldiers entered the square guns blazing, opening fire on the Russian militia who wasted no time in returning fire with their still powerful albeit older weaponry. The square was consumed by a frenzy of warfare, with every burst of gunfire a new set of young blood spilled in a maelstrom of fear and death. As the dust cleared, countless bullets flying to their deadly places of rest. In the center of the newly established crater, a colossus emerged, it’s towering silhouette casting a long shadow over the Russian infantry. “Bzzt-I’ve said if Ivanka weren’t my daughter, perhaps I’d be dating her.” The monstrosity of robotics said in a familiar yet robotic voice. “Mother of Christ.” Putin whispered. 

The gigantic robotic Donald Trump, in all his unholy glory, stood. Twenty feet tall and constructed entirely of metal, the artificial intelligence was the likeness of Trump on every mental level, continually restating the genius quotes Trump had stated in his mortal life. Putin barely had time to register the massive being before Robo-Trump brought down his massive mechanical fist upon the Russian president, Putin barely having time to dive to the side, saving himself from the conservative giant. “Bzzt-When Mexico sends its people, they’re not sending the best. They’re sending people that have lots of problems and they’re bringing those problems. They’re bringing drugs, they’re bringing crime.” RoboTrump, pausing, transformed both of his arms into chain-fed machine guns and resumed speaking as he fired. “Bzzt-They’re rapists and some, I assume, are good people, but I speak to border guards and they’re telling us what we’re getting,”. The hail of bullets impacted into a group of Russian soldiers, killing them instantly.

Cena could tell that the tide of the battle was clearly in the Trumpian forces’ favor, and he made a series of quick tactical decisions in his immense mind as he bodyslammed a Trumpian marine into the throes of oblivion. Even as he gripped two soldiers heads and smashed them together with enough force that they immediately disintegrated, he knew that there was only one way that the battle would be won by the Russians. Flashing a look of pure determination, Cena charged the back side of the mechanical pundit, Trump’s attention divided by the Russian soldier he was tearing in half. The robotic right-winter continued insisting that “The concept of global warming was created by and for the Chinese in order to make U.S. manufacturing non-competitive.” as he cleanly ripped the Russian into two unrecognizable hunks of meat. Cena, certain he had found an opening, channeled his strength into his fist, bringing it down on Trump’s robo-spinal cord. However, with a soft clang, Cena’s clenched fist glanced off of the robotic titan, the enormous reversal of force sending him flying backwards into the department store. Robo-Trump began laughing thunderously at the pitiful attempt to defeat him, then abruptly stopped and stated plainly that "If I were running 'The View,' I'd fire Rosie O'Donnell. I mean, I'd look her right in that fat, ugly face of hers, I'd say, 'Rosie, you're fired.’” He paused. ““Rosie O’Donnell’s disgusting both inside and out. You take a look at her, she’s a slob. She talks like a truck driver, she doesn’t have her facts, she’ll say anything that comes to her mind.” While he launched the brutal tirade against long-dead The View host, Putin had fired dozens of missiles at him using a hand-held rocket launcher to no avail, Robo-Trump not even noticing the attempts of the Russian leader to destroy him.   
As Putin reloaded, Robo-Trump lunged at him in one fluid motion, Putin again barely dodging the motorized former real estate magnate. Cena leapt again into the air, bringing his leg down onto Robo-Trump’s head. This time, Trump reeled from the hit, stumbling backwards."Mc-McCain is not a war hero. He's a war hero because he was captured. I l-like people that weren't captured, OK, I hate to tell y-you." His mechanical voice stuttered uncontrollably, substantial damage done to his wiring. Still unwieldy, he brought his fist down again on Cena. Cena, not reacting in time to the blow, yelled in pain as the the robotic goliath managed to crush his right arm under it’s unholy metallic fist. Cena cried out in pain as his bones were smashed, Putin launching his fist into Robo-Trump’s thigh, a sickening crack sounding out as Putin’s right hand shattered from the impact. But the damage was done. Robo-Trump’s left leg exploded from the powerful strike, sending shrapnel hurtling across the battlefield. Weakened,Trump’s voice became increasingly distorted as he cried out, “I have a g-g-g-great relationship with the blacks!” Losing balance, he collapsed. “Bzzzt-All the women on The Apprentice flirted with me, c-consciously or unconsciously. That’s to be expected!” The volume of his voice began to alternate wildly, his wiring clearly fatally damaged. Cena and Putin both rose, their respective limbs destroyed by the conservative goliath, approaching him through the hailstorm of bullets launched by the two sides of the battle. “R-R-Rand Paul of Kentucky reminds me of a spoiled brat without a properly functioning-bzzzt-brain.” The artificial intelligence began firing his chainguns at Cena’s rock-hard abs, but the bullets merely bounced off as the former WWE champion and Russian President approached Robo-Trump, unflinching in their demeanor. The two joined the still-functional hands they had, and in one unified motion, plunged their fists into the liberal-hating leviathan. In his final moments, Robo-Trump smiled despite his clear defeat upon the battlefield. His metallic body suddenly compartmentalized, turning into a solid metal box with a large radioactive sign on it. John Cena chuckled to himself. 

“His Trump Card.” Cena softly whispered to his Russian comrade before the Trumpian thermonuclear device detonated in a wash of finality, vaporizing everyone on the battlefield instantly.


	6. Epilogue: The Putin Legacy

The dust settles  
Amidst corpses   
Discolored red,  
White and blue.  
Flags asunder,  
Men lay side by  
Side, nation  
Unknown.  
But between them all  
Lays the bones of one more than a man  
And yet never less.  
In that singular  
Instant, he  
Is more  
Alive  
Than  
He  
Has  
Ever  
Been  
In  
His  
Life.


End file.
